


Hushabye Mountain

by blueink3



Series: Screw Your Courage [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birth, F/F, Family, Fluff, Hospitals, John is feeling a lot of things, M/M, Sherlock doesn't know what to do, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Clara welcome a new addition to the family. </p><p>Or, the story of Lucy Watson-Collins' birth and how Uncle John nearly murdered Uncle Sherlock in the middle of Lenox Hill Hospital's maternity ward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch Your Boat from Hushabye Mountain

_Riiiiing… Riiiiing… Riiiiing…_

The mobile is positively earsplitting in the early morning hours and John sluggishly blinks his eyes open and lets them adjust to the dark as much as they can.

“No,” Sherlock groans next to him, rolling over and burying his face in John’s neck as John blindly swats for the phone on his bedside table.

“’llo?” he manages, head sinking back into his pillow. He realizes belatedly that he didn’t even bother looking at the name on the screen.

“Contractions have started,” Harry says breathlessly and John goes from comatose to adrenaline-fueled in a matter of seconds.

“Shit, really? Okay, do you want me to come over?”

Harry releases a shaky breath over the line. “No, it’ll be a while yet, but… keep the phone close, yeah?”

“Of course,” John murmurs. “Give Clara a kiss from us.”

“Will do.”

He clicks off and rests the phone on his stomach for a moment, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. It takes him a second to realize that Sherlock is still awake and watching him now with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Clara’s in labor?”

John nods. “Just. Will be awhile yet.”

Sherlock’s palm rests on his chest, directly over his absolutely thunderous heart. John wonders why his body has chosen to betray him so fantastically, but then again, he never did have much control over it. Especially in Sherlock’s presence.

Clara’s in labor. With a child he helped create.

John swallows and pinches the bridge of his nose, emotions too complex and scattered to possibly deal with at – he glances at his phone once more – 3:38 in the morning.

“Get some sleep,” Sherlock whispers, leaning up and pressing a light kiss on his jaw. “As you said, it’ll be a while.”

His palm remains where it is, though, as if to say,  _I’m here._

John tosses fitfully for the next few hours, sleeping on and off, and next he looks at the clock, it reads 7:06am. He immediately reaches for the discarded mobile amidst the bedclothes and squints an eye open at the text that lights up the screen.

**Call when you wake up.**

“Fuck,” he mutters, immediately hitting Harry’s name in his contacts. 

“John?”

“All right?”

“Yeah, but… could you come over? It’s just – the contractions are getting closer together and it’d be helpful if I had someone to freak out with. Can’t do it in front of Clara, you know?... I just – I need my big brother,” she finishes quietly and something warm seizes his chest.  

“I’m already on my way,” he whispers before hanging up, throwing the covers back, and padding over to the dresser to grab a pair of jeans.

Sherlock is still buried in the chaos of sheets, pillows, and blankets they call their bed, only his unruly mop of curls visible on the blue pillow.

John throws on deodorant, fresh pants, and a t-shirt, before he leans down over the mound as he fastens up his flies.

“Sherlock, wake up.”

“Hm?” the head pops up and slowly the mound moves. “Whassamatter?”

John can’t help but grin fondly. “I’m going to the girls’. Keep Harry company.” 

“I’ll come with,” he manages, arms flailing and knocking a water glass to the floor. Thankfully it was empty. And plastic.

“No, no, take your time,” John says as he leans down and presses a kiss into Sherlock’s curls. “I’ll call when we head to the hospital and you can meet us there.”

Sherlock frowns, sleepy features looking adorable in the early morning light. “But I should be with you.”

John smiles again and noses his way under Sherlock’s ear. He’s lovely like this: quiet, pliant, befuddled. Before they began their relationship, Sherlock had most definitely been the morning person of the two of them, but John has since made him see the error of his ways. He’s also made him see how productive a lie-in on a Saturday can be when one doesn’t have a 2pm matinee to get ready for. And by ‘productive,’ he means ‘shag-filled.’

“I’ll call you when we head to the hospital.”

“Mkay,” Sherlock manages, head burrowing back in the pillow.

John sighs. “If you’re not ready to meet us at Lenox Hill when I ring, though, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock murmurs, blindly reaching up and grabbing hold of John’s jumper to pull him in for another kiss. “Give them my love. I’ll be there in a bit.”

John quickly brushes his teeth and grabs his keys as he heads out the door, the knowledge that there’s about to be a  _baby_ in his life pounding away at the walls of his heart.

xxxxxx

It was 7:07am when Harry hung up with John and he’s buzzing the intercom by 7:43am, which Harry is eternally grateful for. And it’s not a moment too soon – she’s pretty sure she was one lap away from pacing a hole in the hardwood floor. A fact that her downstairs neighbors would definitely not appreciate.

She swings the door open and her brother stands there looking tired, but abuzz with energy. She doesn’t even get out “Hi” before he’s stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. The words die in her throat and she grips the back of his jacket, swallowing hard and burying her face in his shoulder.

“How ya doin’, mum?” he murmurs and she lets out a noise that’s half laugh half sob. Clara is supposed to the hormonal one, yet Harry can’t help tearing up at Johnson & Johnson commercials.

“I don’t know. I’m freaking out,” she says as she pulls away, wiping at her eyes. “The doctor thinks Clara’s been in labor longer than she realized. We’re just… closer to go-time than we thought.”

John smiles and places a kiss on her cheek. “This is about to be the best day of your life. Savor it, yeah?”

She nods and leads him to the kitchen where the kettle’s just boiled.

“How’s Clara?” he asks as she hands him a cup, each leaning against the counter.

“Hanging in. Asleep for now. I told her she should get as much as possible, since a full night’s rest is not something we’re likely to see again for the next year or so.”

“True,” John laughs, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Harry shifts her weight and glances down at the steeping tea bag as it rapidly turns the clear water brown. This must be… weird, for him. Science tells him he’s going to be a father in a matter of hours, but here he stands – an expectant uncle, offering love and support to his little sister as she becomes a mother. She’s asked the world of him and he gives it to her without question because that’s just who he is.

“Did you ever get that nappy changing table set up?” 

She’s laughs, grateful for the reprieve from the emotions roiling in her chest. “I think so.”

“Better check, just to see,” he replies, setting his mug down on the counter and making his way to the nursery. It’s a well-familiar path, considering he painted it along with Sherlock, thought she’s pretty sure John did something drastic like withholding sex just to get the stubborn git to help. Regardless, she and Clara now have a cozy room painted a lovely shade of light green, ready to welcome their darling daughter.

John and Sherlock don’t know it’s a girl. She and Clara want it to be a surprise, but she’s nearly let it slip so many times: nearly saying ‘she,’ almost showing John the new onesie Clara found that reads ‘Future Wonder Woman.’ Harry’s always been more of a Black Widow, but she’ll take what she can get.

John’s always wanted a daughter – he’d be great with one – and Harry’s not sure if he and Sherlock will eventually have children, but at least they can give him this now. A little girl to spoil and love.

She watches as he crouches down and inspects the changing table she painstakingly put together herself while Clara sat in the rocking chair and shouted directions from the manual.

“This one could be a bit tighter,” he says after a moment, shaking a wobbly leg. “Got a screwdriver?”

She nods and pushes off the doorjamb to grab it out of the hall closet. She returns and hands it to him wordlessly as he promptly tightens the fastening.

“All set.”

“Want to check the crib as well?” she drawls and he smiles sheepishly.

“Did that last week.” He winks and tosses her the screwdriver as he strides back out into the hall.

She doesn’t think he’ll ever stop surprising her.

“His majesty isn’t with you,” she says, following him to the kitchen and, more importantly, to their tea.

“He offered, but I didn’t think you guys would want too many people around.”

“Sherlock isn’t people,” she replies, holding her tongue with the follow up ‘Or human, sometimes.’ And she means it as the highest compliment.

John shrugs. “I told him I’d call when we left for the hospital.”

“Babe?” Clara calls from the bedroom and panic immediately seizes Harry’s chest. 

“Which might be sooner rather than later,” she breathes and hurries to the bedroom where her wife is propped up on heaps of pillows. “Hey, love. How are you feeling?” She sits on the side of the bed and takes the hand that Clara is holding out.

 _Holy hell_ does she have a grip.

Clara breathes deeply, sweat beginning to dampen the roots of her hair. “That one was bad. Didn’t last too long, though.”

Harry brings Clara’s hand to her lips and places a kiss on her knuckles. “John’s here,” she murmurs and Clara’s eyes immediately light up.

They both turn to find him hovering in the doorway, unsure whether to intrude on the family moment.

“John Watson, get in here,” Clara says. “This is partially your fault.”

It gets a laugh out of all of them, and Harry is thankful that John’s smile is a bit more genuine this time.

“Hey champ,” he says as he inches closer and Clara arches an eyebrow at him.

“Did you bring an epidural?”

John pauses. “No?”

“Then get out.”

Harry marvels at her. Clara always did have an unnatural ability to put people at ease. To assess a situation and do what was best for all involved. It’s one of the many reasons she fell for her and fell  _hard._ It’s why John looks like the burden he’s carrying on his shoulders has finally abated for the first time since he entered the flat.

“It’s doing the merengue. Feel.” Clara grabs John's hand and places it towards the top of her stomach, where a tiny foot is pressing against her abdomen.

Harry watches as John's eyebrows shoot up and he laughs, swallowing thickly and letting his hand rest there for a moment while his niece kicks away at his palm. 

"Active little one you've got there," he murmurs and Harry snorts. 

"Of course. It's part Watson." She makes a concerted not to say 'she.'  _She's_ part Watson. She also thoroughly avoids mentioning which part of Team Watson she came from.

As if reading her mind, John asks, "And you really won't tell me what it is? Feels weird to still call the baby 'it."

"Luckily, you won't have to wait long," Clara groans, nearly crushing Harry's hand once more. "I don't think we can put this off anymore." 

"All right," Harry whispers, the sudden fear she feels stealing the voice from her throat. "John, the bag is in the hall. Will you grab it for me and call a cab?" 

"You got it," he replies with military cool and he spins on his heel, back straight, as if bracing for battle. 

In a way, she supposes he is.

xxxxxx 

**Leaving for hospital.**

The text comes in at 8:17 in the morning and Sherlock takes one last gulp of his tea before grabbing his keys from the table by the door. 

**On my way. - SH**

**Love you. - SH**

As soon as the door had clicked shut behind John, Sherlock kicked the covers back and padded to the bathroom for a shower. It was going to be an interesting day for the man he loves and Sherlock didn't want to be apart from him a moment longer than necessary. 

John says he's fine. Insists it, even, but Sherlock knows better. He can see it in the crease of John's forehead and the tension in his shoulders. In the way he glances at the ultrasound photo on the fridge for a moment longer than strictly necessary and in the way he actively avoided the nursery until Harry had practically begged them to help paint it.

Yes, Sherlock knows better, which is why he was sitting on a stool at the bar in the kitchen, fingers drumming away on the countertop, staring at his mobile when the text came in, simply so he could be out the door less than ten seconds later.

 **Love you too.** John eventually replies as Sherlock is sliding into a cab and Sherlock holds the phone tight, willing John to hang on until he gets there. 

It's not a long ride to Lenox Hill from Sherlock's apartment - practically a straight shot across the park to East 77th St. Still, Harry and Clara moved to the E. 80s during  _Macbeth_ , so he assumes they're already ensconced in a room by the time he comes jogging through the entrance. 

"Maternity?" he asks the receptionist ( _32, tired, coming off the night shift_ ) and she points to the elevators around the corner. 

"Sixth floor," she replies, perking up a bit at the sight of a potentially expectant father. 

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would merely roll his eyes and carry on, but she's helped him get one step closer to John, so he smiles and she smiles back and Sherlock considers that his good deed done for the day. 

The sixth floor approaches rapidly and he holds his breath as he comes to the looming, wooden security doors. He rings the doorbell and a cheerful voice greets, "Hello, how may I help you?" 

"Here for Clara Collins. Watson-Collins," he replies and the door buzzes open a moment later. He checks in at the front desk and gets a wristband, informing all those in the ward that he's not actually here to make off with a child.

Finally,  _finally_ , he makes his way down the hall to the waiting room where John sits with his head in his hands, knee bouncing as he tries and fails to ignore the people waiting in the room with him: the expectant grandparents and soon-to-be older siblings banging away at a smattering of toys. There aren't many, though - only one other family - and Sherlock is grateful for the relative privacy. 

"John," Sherlock murmurs and his partner's head shoots up, the look of relief on his face enough to make the breath catch in Sherlock's chest. 

"Hey," John murmurs as he stands, reaching a hand out to Sherlock, which Sherlock immediately takes. “That was fast.”

“I did promise,” he replies. "Is she okay?" 

John nods. "Her water broke just as we were wheeling her in the door." 

"Better than in the cab," Sherlock replies and John snorts. 

"Definitely. I'm surprised he picked us up to be honest." His gaze darts around the room, over the magazines and the tow-headed child currently bent over a pop-up book. He's nervous, eyes never alighting on any one thing for an extended period of time, especially the window across the hall that looks into the nursery. Sure, he's worried for his sister and sister-in-law and the child they're trying to bring into this world, but Sherlock knows it's so much deeper than that. So much more  _complicated_ than that. 

"Did they give you a timeline?" 

John shakes his head and glances down at their still-entwined fingers. "She was already at seven centimeters, but she could stay that way for hours yet." 

Sherlock frowns and John glances up at him and smiles.

"Please tell me you didn't delete basic biology." 

"No, I just don't need the visual at 9:03 on a Saturday morning." 

John laughs and Sherlock tightens his grip, tugging him closer to place a kiss on his temple. 

"How's Harry doing?" 

"Stiff upper lip and all that." John smiles ruefully. "She's terrified." 

Sherlock tugs him over to his vacated seat and gently pushes him into it before settling beside him. "I have a feeling she's not the only one." 

"I'm fine," John replies, but it's too automatic, too reflexive. Too practiced. Sherlock might not know many things, but he knows John, and John is a terrible liar, despite the fact that he does it for a living. 

He doesn't say anything, though. Merely pulls their still-clasped hands into his lap and traces the lines on John's knuckles. Quiet descends for a few moments, interrupted by the occasional telephone ring at the front desk or question from the boy on the floor to his grandmother, who answers with the unending patience only a grandparent can possess.

John leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, but his grip never slackens. At least his knee has stopped bouncing and Sherlock takes a moment to catalogue the bags under his eyes and the small scar on his wrist from a scene-change gone wrong.

The peace is short-lived, though, as the boy's exuberant father enters a moment later and scoops up his son from where he was playing on the floor, pressing kisses to the face of the laughing child. The older couple, presumably the man's parents, stand and immediately assault him with a flurry of questions: Healthy? Weight? Length? Gender is not among them, so the fact that it was another boy must be old news by now.

John has opened his eyes and is watching the man with a shamming disinterest that doesn't fool Sherlock for a moment. He squeezes John's fingers again, bringing that laser sharp gaze to him. Sherlock has no doubts that John could flay him open with a look. In fact, he's done it on multiple occasions, and it must go both ways because right now, he can see John's every fear, every insecurity, every regret, and every joy written plain as day in the color of his eyes. 

The new father laughs, drawing John's piercing gaze to him once more and the man must notice the attention because he ducks sheepishly. 

"Sorry, we're a bit loud," he says, eyes teary yet bright. 

John shakes his head with a small smile. "No apology necessary. By all means, carry on." 

"Do you want to meet your little brother?" the man asks the boy and the child nods as they disappear out the door and down the corridor, leaving John and Sherlock blessedly alone. 

John exhales the breath he was holding and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees once more. He never lets go of Sherlock's hand, though, and the taller man leans into him to cut distance.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that – could be minutes, could be hours – but finally, _finally,_ John utters the seven words Sherlock's been waiting to hear:

"I don't think I can do this." 

xxxxxx

Thank god he's already sitting because the admission would certainly have buckled his knees. 

John feels panic rising in his chest and he closes his eyes, attempting to breathe evenly. He hasn't felt this kind of terror since Nate strapped Macbeth's sword on him and all but shoved him out onto center stage. 

And because Sherlock knows  _exactly_ what's going through his head, he quietly murmurs, “You’re technically going to be a father.”

John sighs, but that vice on his lungs tightens. “No, I’m not.”

“Biologically speaking.”

“Sherlock – ” John snaps, biting back whatever else he was about to say and rubbing his face as he stands. He lets go of his partner's fingers for the first time since Sherlock arrived and he feels the loss keenly. His anger is beginning to spike, though, and he’d really like to not get thrown out of the maternity ward today. _Page Six_ would have a field day with that.

He stares at the window of the nursery across the way and listens to the phone calls at the front desk, attempting to ignore the distant cry of an unhappy baby. 

"I'm okay with it, Sherlock. Really," he says as he turns. "I wouldn't have agreed to it if otherwise." 

Those keen eyes narrow, never leaving his face, and yet John's feels their weight over every inch of his body. Calculating. Accessing. 

"You're lying." 

"Jesus," John mutters, turning around once more and pinching the bridge of his nose. For as badly as he needed Sherlock 30 minutes ago, now all he wants is space. "I'm going for a walk." 

"A walk?" Sherlock's voice is alarmed, like if John leaves him, he'll be asked to deliver a baby on his own or some such nonsense. "But what if something happens?" 

John tilts his head. "It won't. Not for a while. Babies take time." He pulls his phone out and fires off a text to Harry, just in case she comes looking for him: 

 **Going for a quick wander.**  
**Won't stray too far.**

"John – " Sherlock stands and John backs away, heart clenching at the hurt look on the other man's face. 

"I just need a coffee."  _And a Valium._

Sherlock looks skeptical, but nods, and John pulls him in by his lapels to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Coffee for you too?" 

"Please," he murmurs and John nods. 

"I'll be right back." 

He takes the long way to the cafeteria, which is actually completely by accident because as soon as he leaves the ward, he promptly gets lost in the halls of Lenox Hill, despite the signs. He finds the Starbucks stand by following two exhausted looking interns, and he can't help but smile at the flashbacks he's having to his med school days. 

He could easily stay lost in his thoughts for the remainder of the day, but he eventually finds his way back to maternity, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. And as the wooden security doors open, he immediately spots Harry and Sherlock talking in hushed tones in the middle of the corridor – never a good sign.

Harry is the first to notice him and she looks both relieved and trepidatious. John's steps slow and Harry meets him halfway as Sherlock hovers at a distance. Alarm bells begin going off in his head and John has to remind himself to keep his grip firm on the coffee, lest they meet an untimely end on the floor.

"Oh god, what happened?" he asks, heart in his throat, and Harry stops abruptly. 

"What? Oh, no, no. Nothing happened. Clara's cursing like a sailor on shore leave, but she's at nine centimeters, so I can’t stay long." 

"Already?" His voice comes out more like a squeak than he'd like and Harry tilts her head at him with far too much pity than he’d like.

She sighs and takes the coffee cups from his hands, wordlessly turning and passing them over to Sherlock. He retreats back a safe distance and gives John a soft smile. It does nothing to comfort. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

"Look," Harry begins, taking his now empty hands, "if this is too much..." 

"It's not," he interrupts. 

"John." His name on her lips is quiet and simple and just a little bit pleading. The way she used to say it when she was tiny and would crawl into bed with him because their father had come home drunk yet again. "I get that it's... weird, for you. This." 

"It's really not, Harry." 

"Fine then. _Difficult_. It's difficult for you and don't say otherwise because I can see it in your eyes." 

John hangs his head, if only because he’d make himself meet her penetrating gaze. She always did know him better than anyone, possibly even better than Sherlock, and John can’t let her see the uncertainty currently waging a war within him. "I agreed to it and was happy to," he quietly says and it's the truth, but the words are a whisper, fighting to be heard through the tightness in his throat.

"Oh my brave big brother," Harry murmurs, letting go of one hand to cup his cheek. "You don't always have to be the strong one." 

"Habit," he replies, but he can hear the tears in his own voice, and she smiles as if to say _There you are._ He needs to reassure her that this is what he wants. Because it _is_ , it just... has baggage. But that's his problem. No one else's. "Harry, I need you to understand something. You are going to be an amazing mother. And if I had any part in helping to make that happen, then I'm a happy man." 

"Are you?" she asks and he squeezes her hands. 

"More than you could ever know." 

"Ms. Watson?" a nurse calls down the hall and Harry jumps. 

"Coming!" she calls, pressing a rushed kiss on John's cheek.  

"Go get 'em, Tiger," he says and she pulls away positively beaming before turning and offering a quick peck to Sherlock as well. 

John watches her dash down the hall and disappear into Clara's room, before his gaze eventually lands on Sherlock, who still holds their undoubtedly lukewarm coffee. 

"You," John says, pointing and gesturing for him to come closer, and Sherlock shuffles forward until John can reach out and grab him by the lapels. “You knew I was freaking out." 

"I did," Sherlock replies. 

"And you told Harry." 

"She knew." 

John looks down at his shoes and the various scuffmarks on the linoleum floor, trying to put the words he needs to say in the order he needs to say them. 

"I can’t do this without you, you know.” His voice cracks and he glances up into Sherlock's cerulean eyes.

“You aren’t. I’m here.” 

“The thing is – people keep asking me how I am and what I'm feeling and the truth is, I just don't know. I’m happy and sad and a fuckton of other things that I just can’t classify at the moment.”

Sherlock frowns and he looks so much like a child trying to figure out a particularly adult problem that John can't help but reach up and press a soft kiss to those plush lips. 

"Why sad?" Sherlock asks as he pulls away and John smiles. 

"I couldn't begin to tell you." But he could. He knows. And if the way Sherlock is looking at him is any indication, Sherlock knows too. 

"I once asked you if you wanted children," the taller man begins and John nods, because he remembers it acutely. It was the conversation that got them to where they are right now, sitting in a maternity ward waiting room, getting ready to accept the newest member of their family at any given moment. "You didn't give me a direct answer." 

"Sherlock, we don't have to talk about this right now." 

He gestures around them. "What better time?" 

John listens to a baby crying from one of the rooms down the hall. "Maybe someday." 

"Someday you want to talk about it or someday you want kids?" 

John clears his throat as he takes the tepid coffees from Sherlock's hands and places them on the nearby table full of magazines. 

"The latter," he replies as he faces his partner once more. 

"You'd make an amazing father," Sherlock murmurs and John nearly scoffs, but the sound won't come.  

"Likewise," he finally replies and Sherlock raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

"Please. You'd spend your days following me around, making sure I didn't accidentally douse him with chemicals or bore him with repeated performances of the St. Crispin's Day speech."

John laughs. "Good thing I happen to like that one." 

"I remember." 

"You do?" 

"Your Inside the Actors Studio interview. I was there." 

John stares at him, the laughter sliding from his face. "You were?"  

Sherlock ducks his head and shoves his hands in his pockets with a shrug. "Turns out I couldn't stay away." 

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me?” John bursts out, but Sherlock merely rolls his eyes.

“Really? That’s the argument you want to have right now?”

John huffs, but concedes and gets back to the matter at hand. "Do you want kids?" he asks abruptly and immediately berates himself. He could have been a bit more suave about that.

And sure enough, Sherlock looks like a deer caught in the headlights. "I don't – I haven't – I've not given it much thought." 

"I'm not pressuring you. It's – if it's not something you want, then that's fine," John assures, hoping Sherlock can see the proof in his conviction. "You're my priority, progeny or not. I'm with you for as long as you'll have me." 

Sherlock tilts his head, looking at John like a particularly complicated bit of Elizabethan text, but before he can open his mouth to reply, a voice is calling John's name and he turns to find Harry standing in the hallway, tears freely flowing down her cheeks. She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers, laughing and crying in equal measure.

“Come meet your niece.” 

xxxxxx

_Niece._

Of course. Perfect, Sherlock thinks, as his hand comes to rest on John’s back, slightly nudging him forward. He can feel John's breath hitch in his lungs and Sherlock leans down and brushes his nose along John's ear. 

"Come on," he whispers, but John is already moving, steps getting faster and faster as he reaches out and wraps Harry in his arms. She audibly sobs into his shoulder and Sherlock hangs back, letting the siblings have their moment. 

"Get in here, you," Harry orders, voice wavering, as she holds her hand out for Sherlock to join in. He's not one for group hugs, but he decides to make an exception, stepping forward and pressing himself against John's back as Harry's arm wraps around his neck.

"Seven pounds, one ounce, 18 inches long," she murmurs.  

"Typical Watson," Sherlock mutters and John reaches back and swats his head. 

"Hey. We're compact but powerful." 

"Don't I know it," Sherlock replies, voice dipping much deeper than he intended. He blames John's proximity on that and it prompts a disgusted noise from Harry.  

"Keep it clean, there are innocents around," she groans as she pulls away and wipes at her tears. "Come on." 

John surreptitiously wipes a hand across his own face and follows close behind, blindly reaching for Sherlock’s hand, which he gladly takes. He feels all of the tension seep out of John and he goes loose, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock squeezes back as they enter the hospital room and peek around the curtain.

Clara looks exhausted but elated, tears freely flowing and smile wide as she holds a pink wrapped bundle in her arms.

“Hey,” she murmurs, beckoning them further into the room.

Sherlock has seen multiple babies both in real life and on screen, but never one so… new. Scientifically speaking, he knows how small children are when they’re first born, but this baby – this child who is part John Watson – looks entirely too fragile and precious for the world at large.

He clearly must protect her at all costs. 

“John,” Clara begins and her voice breaks on his name. She takes a moment to compose herself and John nearly breaks Sherlock’s fingers with the force of his grip. But if this is what he needs in this moment, then Sherlock will gladly suffer for the cause.

Clara recovers (as well as she can) and beckons John over. “Come meet Lucy.” She and Harry share a glance and Sherlock holds his breath. “Lucy Joanna Watson-Collins.”

John makes a noise and Sherlock holds tight, trying to anchor him as best he can.

“Joanna was the closest to 'John' we could come up with,” Clara continues as Harry mutters, “And agree on, at least.”

Sherlock can feel John shaking, but because he’s standing just at his shoulder, he can’t quite see his face. Only his pulse pounding at his temple and his jaw working as he clenches back all of the emotions of the day.

Clara holds her hand out and John goes to her. She tugs him closer until he has to lean over, eyes absolutely rapt on the child in her arms. The child that Sherlock can see from across the room already shares John’s features.

“Thank you,” she whispers fiercely. “Thank you so much.”

John loses what little composure he had, nodding mutely as the tears spill onto his cheeks. Even Sherlock (to his horror) finds his throat closing. Harry sidles up to him and loops her arm through his. He allows it, as he allows most things when it comes to Watsons, and he’s sure it will be no different with the little girl Clara is currently passing into John’s arms.

John clears his throat as he straightens with the bundle, which barely reaches from his palm to his elbow nestled safely in those sturdy arms.

“Hello, Lucy,” he whispers and the child makes a noise of discontent before settling down. John is completely besotted and Sherlock knows his fate is likely to go the same way.

And frankly, he can’t be arsed to care. He will gladly fall head over heels and probably even smile while doing so. Watsons have that effect on him.

“You’re going to be godfathers, obviously,” Clara says and Sherlock finally snaps to.

“Obviously?” he asks, his voice rough from disuse. “I don’t believe I’m anyone’s obvious choice.”

“Shut up,” John murmurs, eyes never straying from the little girl in his arms and Sherlock knows, in that instant, he would willingly give him a hundred children if John asked it of him, if only to see that look on his face one more time.

“Yes, godfathers,” Harry continues, nudging him with her hip, “ _Uncle_ Sherlock.”

John finally looks up at that and their eyes meet and Sherlock cannot _breathe._ He didn’t think it was possible to love this man any more and then fate went and put a _baby_ in his arms.

“John,” Clara begins more quietly, “if it’s all right with you, when the time comes, we’d like to tell her who exactly you are. I mean – your part in this.”

John freezes and so Sherlock does too.

“You don’t have to,” John replies, glancing at them both. “I don’t want to make things awkward.”

“You won’t,” Harry firmly says, letting go of Sherlock and perching on the bed next to Clara, taking her hand. “She’ll have questions. Obviously we’re getting ahead of ourselves, but one day, she’ll have to do a class project on family with construction paper and crayons and she will ask who her father is.”

“We don’t want to keep that from her,” Clara concludes. “But only as long as you’re okay with it.”

John stares at them both and Sherlock can practically see the gears turning and he knows before it happens, that that beautiful, piercing, trusting gaze will eventually land on him.

Two seconds later, it does.

John asks him silently, with the smallest quirk of his brow, but a pleading look in his eyes, and Sherlock nods back because of course he would never deny John this. And he would never deny that child John.

“Okay,” John whispers. “When the time comes.”

“When the time comes,” Harry agrees.

Those eyes find him again and he shuffles forward, leaning his chin on John’s shoulder and staring at the child in his arms. Her eyes remain locked on John’s face, occasionally darting over to Sherlock, and he’s impressed with her ability to focus already, being all of less than an hour old. But he knows with one glance that he’s absolutely _done for._ She has him wrapped around her finger ten times over. Both of them. And she can’t even hold her own head up.

“She’s beautiful,” he finds himself saying because surely he must say something and the truth seems to be the most logical option. And she is: half-Clara, half-John and possibly the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

 “You want a go?”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist, careful not to jostle the precious cargo he carries. “Not yet.”

“You’ll have to eventually,” Harry threatens and Sherlock finds himself smiling. Genuinely, in fact.

“I look forward to it,” he breathes against John’s neck and the shorter man leans into him, sighing contentedly, but still solely focused on Lucy.

“You’ve got to sing Hushabye Mountain,” Harry urges and John chuckles.

“What? Now?”

“Obviously.”

“I’m not a performing monkey, you know.”

“Aw, you’re _our_ performing monkey,” Clara chimes in and even Sherlock knows John can’t deny a new mother that kind of request.

And that’s how Lucy Joanna Watson-Collins spends her first day on this earth: in the arms of those that love her with her uncle’s lullaby in her ears.


	2. Sail Far Away From Lullaby Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast-forward nine years and there's an important conversation to be had.

The time for construction paper and crayons comes faster than any of them are really prepared for and yet later than anyone actually expected. 

It’s a Saturday evening when his mobile rings at 20:32 GMT, 5:32pm EST and John answers it on the second ring, knowing it can only be one of three people and none of them is Sherlock. He's just stepping off-stage at the Barbican and won't be near a phone for another ten minutes at least. 

Sure enough, he glances at the screen flashing  **Harry Watson**  and lifts the phone to his ear. 

"Hiya." 

"Hey," she replies and immediately he knows something's wrong. Her voice is quiet, tinny. Garbled. 

"What happened?" he asks, heart thumping just a bit faster. 

"We're fine, everyone's... fine…”

“But?” he prompts, because he knows his sister and the words that just left her mouth sound anything but ‘fine.’

“I’m sorry to call so late,” she says instead. Avoidance.

John rolls his eyes as he stands and listens at the bottom of the stairs for any sounds from Liam. At nearly four, he’s inherited Sherlock’s more adventurous qualities. He now treats his cot railings like a jungle gym. 

"Harry..." 

"Right, yeah." She audibly swallows. "You always did know me too damn well." 

"You're also just ridiculously transparent," he teases, but his stomach is uneasy. They speak regularly, sure, but never after 10pm UK time, lest they wake Liam who's recently gone through a particularly Sherlockian sleeping patch. "What's going on?" he asks softly. 

"It's Lu. She's fine! But - She's on a weekend field trip. Comes home tomorrow. It's great. Through the museum, she's learning tons," she rambles. "But, well, you get a bunch of girls in sleeping bags and they talk." 

"About...?" His knowledge of nine-year-olds is decades past due. Lord knows what they get up to these days. 

"John, she's asked about her father." 

He exhales sharply, as if he's been punched in the solar plexus.  

"Oh." 

xxxxxx

Sherlock leans his head against the cool window as the black hired car whisks him across town from the theatre. The crowds at the stage door have only gotten more and more robust as he gets deeper and deeper into his run. He doesn't mind seeing everyone (a change of heart he can only attribute to John), but it takes its toll. After nearly three hours of Marlowe, he wants nothing more than a stiff drink and a warm bed, preferably after a cuddle with his son and a shag with his husband.  

"Thanks, Tom," he murmurs, groaning as he shifts across the seat to grab his bag and exit by the kerb. It's also John's doing that he not only knows his driver's name, but that he actually uses it. When saying 'thanks,' no less. 

Speaking of John, he glances up towards the window, as has become custom, to find the man himself smiling softly and giving him a small wave before letting the curtain fall softly into place. Something's off, though. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes and there's a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. If anything, it's usually wine and only after Sherlock's home to join him. 

He frowns slightly and gets the door open, mindful of Mrs. Hudson downstairs. She could afford the penthouse at the Savoy, but she insists on staying here with the groaning pipes and faulty heating. Granted, he can't really blame her - he and John can certainly afford more than 221B, but there's something to be said for creature comforts.

John's standing at the door by the time Sherlock gets to the top of the stairs (whiskey no longer in hand) and Sherlock hangs up his coat before tugging John into his arms by his shirtfront. 

"Missed you," he murmurs and John chuckles.  

"You saw me five hours ago." 

"Too long." 

John's hands stroke along his spine. "Well, you'll have to chat with Marlowe about that." 

"I shall write a strongly worded letter," he says, pulling away to place a kiss on John's lips, tasting the tangy burn of the alcohol.  "Mm, been drinking." 

"Just a touch." 

"I like you when you're a little loose," Sherlock growls and John snorts. "Let me go kiss our boy and then I'll join you."

He almost says, 'and then you can tell me what's wrong' but he doesn't want to play his hand yet. He doesn't want John to know he's cottoned on because John always likes to tell things in his own time. He can fool many people (hence the awards bearing his name scattered about the flat), but never Sherlock.

He presses his lips to his husband's once more, never failing to marvel that it is his right to do so, before turning and climbing the stairs (minding the creaky one) and pushing open the door to Liam’s room.

The boy’s soft snores hover in the warm glow cast by the nightlight in the corner. Sherlock smiles as he pads over and leans down, barely brushing his lips across his plump cheek before running his fingers gently through those inky curls.  

Of all of the things Sherlock has done, William Henry Watson-Holmes is by far his greatest achievement. 

"Goodnight, sweet prince," he murmurs - three words he says every night whether in person or by phone - before turning and gingerly exiting the room once more. 

When he comes down, John is already in his chair and there's a tumbler of whiskey on the table next to Sherlock's, the fire in the grate making amber light go dancing across the dark leather. 

He all but collapses into the beaten cushion and brings the glass to his lips, giving his husband a lazy smile. Hopefully it doesn't betray the uneasiness he feels. 

John must not see it, though, because he merely reaches down and scoops Sherlock's feet into his lap, kneading the soles that supported nearly three hours of Elizabethan drama that evening. Sherlock groans and lets his head fall back, all thought of John's potential problem evaporating like smoke from a clandestine cigarette. 

"I know you can tell," John murmurs after a quiet moment, but Sherlock barely registers the words.

"Tell what?" he nearly slurs and John chuckles. 

"That something's wrong." 

Sherlock does lift his head at that, smiling shyly. "Never could fool you." 

"Likewise," he replies, before the smile slides from him face and he sobers. "I think I have to go to New York." 

Sherlock pulls his feet away and sits forward. "What? When?" 

"First thing." 

Sherlock's mind whirs with possibilities. It's not a professional commitment. John wouldn't look so troubled. Family, then, and the only family they have there are Harry, Clara, and Lu. 

"Are they all right?" 

"They're fine," John replies with a fond smile, because he never fails to marvel at Sherlock's deductive reasoning. "Only... Lu's asked about her father." 

"Oh," is all that comes out. 

"That's what I said."  

He sits with that for a moment and watches the whiskey swirl in his glass. Of course, they all had known that the question of Lucy's paternity would eventually come into play, but he didn't exactly expect to come face to face with it on a Saturday evening in February. It's not the kind of thing one plans for. 

Liam will probably ask the same thing one day and if the nausea he feels in his gut is any indication, Sherlock isn't remotely prepared to think about that yet. 

"Of course you have to go," he replies after a quiet moment because this is about John, not a panic attack he'll undoubtedly have years down the line. 

"Yeah?" John asks and he looks relieved. 

"Obviously. Lu, and more importantly Harry and Clara, need you right now." 

His husband visibly swallows and nods his head. "I was hoping you'd think that way." 

"And honestly,  _you_ need  _them,"_ he replies, fingers already reaching for his phone so Irene can arrange travel. "Do you want me to come?" he asks without looking and yet he sees John's head snap up so quickly, Sherlock swears he must have done himself an injury. 

"What?" 

Sherlock continues to type out a text, fully aware of the weight of John's gaze. "To New York. Would you like me to come?" 

John stares blankly at him for a moment. "The Olivier nominations come out in days." 

"So?"

"You can't miss a show." 

"Most nominators have seen me by now, I'm sure." 

"Irene will kill you."

"Well, if she hasn't succeeded by now - "

"Sherlock - "

"John," he retorts with exasperation, finally glancing up.  

That blank stare, which had slowly morphed into incredulity, becomes a look of absolute wonder. "I love you so much," John blurts out. "So, so much." He reaches forward and takes a hold of Sherlock's free hand before bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss on his knuckles. "But you need to stay here and ensure your continued existence far away from Irene's ire." 

Sherlock tilts his head and studies the man before him; the man who's gone into battle (both fiction and non) and emerged perhaps not unscathed, but stronger for it. 

"You shouldn't have to do this alone," he says and John's eyes soften.

"I'm not alone. You're always with me, even if you aren't. And I have Harry and Clara." 

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "But you still have reservations." 

"Of course I do," John nearly scoffs, before saying more quietly, "Of course I do." 

"About Lu knowing?" 

His husband gives a pathetic shrug and stares at the drink in his hand. "What if she's... disappointed." 

Sherlock's jaw drops in indignation. "That  _you're_ her  _father_?" The thought alone strains credulity. John is a great father. The best, in fact. Anyone would be lucky to have him and Sherlock cannot begin to form words adequate enough to show how thankful he is that they are raising Liam together. 

"Well, yeah," John replies, but Sherlock is already shaking his head. 

"Not possible."

They have a bit of a silent standoff with John glaring (though it lacks any real malice) and Sherlock taunting him with a raised eyebrow. John will break first, he always does, and tonight is no different as he finally sighs with a slight smile and drops his gaze to his lap.

"We'll see." 

But before Sherlock can tell him that 'We'll see' isn't good enough, his phone chimes in his hand and he reads the incoming text.

"Irene has you on the 9:05am Virgin Atlantic out of Heathrow. You land at JFK at 11:50am local time. First Class." 

"I don't need First Class." 

"You'll need the free Bloody Marys." 

After a moment, John nods his head as if to say 'True.' "What about you two?" he asks and it's Sherlock's turn to shrug. 

"Mrs. Hudson can get him set for bed while I'm at the theatre, and if not, there's always Molly. And Greg. And even Irene, if you're willing to overlook that last incident." 

John snorts which draws a laugh from Sherlock. They had allowed Irene to watch Liam on an overnight and had returned from their brief holiday to find her nursing a martini at nine in the morning and Liam elbow deep in her unmentionables. Apparently it had been a rough night, but he was soothed by the bright colors (and textures, no doubt) of the lace. John thought it was hilarious. Sherlock thought it didn't bode well for Liam's teenage years. They at least got plenty of blackmail material for his eventual first date. 

"I think Irene was more scarred by that experience than Liam," John replies and Sherlock can't help but nod in agreement. "I won't be gone long. There and back." 

"Stay as long as you need," Sherlock murmurs. "Tomorrow's my day off. Liam and I will go to the park, feed some ducks. We'll be fine," he says, but there's a taste of something sour on his tongue. 

John had let his career take a backseat while Sherlock did  _Doctor Faustus_ both at Trafalgar Studios and then in its West End transfer. John is happy to do it, he knows he is, but Sherlock can't help feeling like he's cheated him out of something, while he himself has lost countless evening cuddles, naptime stories, and weekend strolls. 

He's pulled from his rather morose line of thinking by John suddenly standing and holding his hand out to him. 

"Come on. Take me to bed." He tugs Sherlock from the chair with a saucy wink. "If you've got the energy for it."  

Sherlock moves faster than a Broadway quick change.

xxxxxx

When John wakes the following morning, long before his alarm had been set to go off, he finds himself alone in an empty bed. It's not an uncommon occurrence, but it is Sunday. Sherlock's day off. The mad genius usually allows himself a bit of a lie in. 

But then he smells bacon and eggs and hears the giggle of the little boy he didn't think he'd get to say a proper goodbye to, having to leave so early, and his heart swells. 

He kicks the covers back and stumbles to his feet, bleary eyes trying to adjust as his hand flails to shut off the alarm on his phone before it can blare in the pre-dawn silence. 

He pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms and a vest, wincing as his bare toes flex against the cold hardwood floor. He can hear more giggles and god only knows what state the kitchen is in, but he'll gladly take runny eggs all over the counter and bacon grease all over the stove if it means coming out to find Sherlock and Liam (perched on a chair) standing side by side as they make John breakfast, their curls riotously identical in classic Holmesian bedhead. 

"Morning, loves," he says as he steps up behind them and Sherlock grunts a response while Liam pipes up, "Morning, Daddy!"

He's clearly thrilled to be up so early. John and Sherlock are less so. As he leans down and buries his face in his son's hair, he surreptitiously grabs a handful of Sherlock's bum, causing the taller man to inhale sharply. 

"Papa, did you burn yourself?" Liam asks, mistaking the gasp for something far more child-friendly. 

"... Yes," Sherlock slowly replies and John hides his giggle from the boy as he reaches up on tiptoes to place a kiss on his husband's cheek. 

"Is this all for me?" The table has been perfectly set for three and two mugs of hot coffee sit next to Liam's plastic cup of juice. 

Liam nods as he attempts to help Sherlock stir the scrambled eggs in the pan. Sherlock keeps a hand on his belly to keep him far enough away from the flame. 

"Go shower and we'll be ready by the time you're done." 

"You're too good to me," John groans as he kisses them each again before turning and grabbing his coffee to disappear into the shower. He can't let himself think about the trip ahead just yet. Or rather, the destination. The brief thought alone makes him rethink the choice of coffee as nausea roils in his stomach, but he knew this would happen one day. He expected it. He and Sherlock  _talked_ about it. But now here they are with the moment upon them and John is at an utter loss.

Before he knows it, he's stepping out of the shower almost on autopilot and drying himself off, pulling on clothes and draining his coffee only to be met in the doorway by Sherlock holding the pot to top him up. 

"I love you," John groans and Sherlock smirks. 

"I know." 

"Git." 

"Idiot." 

John runs his fingers through his damp hair and before tugging Sherlock down into another kiss, careful not to slosh the coffee. They're only usually this demonstrative in the quiet of their home, but even this is a little much for them. Not that John minds. He takes comfort in every kiss, every caress, every nuzzle. And since he will be without his husband for the next however many days, he needs to stock up on the emotional fortification Sherlock always seems to provide. 

“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs after a long moment. “Eggs are getting cold. And our son is getting impatient.”

John’s heart does that little flutter that it always does when Sherlock says ‘our son’ and he smiles softly as Sherlock tugs him out of the room.

Breakfast is a messy, but beautiful affair and John listens to Liam detail all that he has planned for the day. It involves the zoo and the park and Angelo's - all things Sherlock tolerates for the sake of their son. John suggests they invite Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly to act as a buffer for the public masses. Liam thinks this is clearly the best idea in the world and Sherlock's eyes convey his thanks. 

The ding of his phone a minute later from the awaiting driver signals that the time for goodbye has come, brief though the separation may be.

"Give us a kiss," John says to Liam, bending down and scooping the boy up into his arms. “Be good for Papa, yes?”

“Yes,” the boy nods, all business, and John’s heart pangs, as it does every time he sees his husband looking at him from his son’s eyes.

Speaking of –

He lets Liam slide to the floor as Sherlock takes his spot, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his waist to pull him in tight.

"Call me when you land," he murmurs and John nods.  

"I will." 

“Take as much time as you need.”

John nods again, but this time, the words won’t come. Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s head

He has three Bloody Marys on the plane and manages to sleep off his buzz by the time he lands in New York.

xxxxxx

Harry paces the length of the apartment’s relatively sizeable living room, gnawing on her thumbnail and glancing at the clock approximately every 14 seconds.

Clara quirks an eyebrow, snaps her paper, and blessedly says nothing.

“He should be here by now,” Harry finally cracks and her wife smiles.

“He called me from the cab ten minutes ago. It usually takes at least 30 to get here from JFK.”

Harry stops dead. “Why’d he call  _you_?”

“Because I’m the calm one,” Clara drawls, turning another page in the Arts sections and hiding behind the  _Times’_  front page.

“Traitor.”

“Worrywart. Sit down, please. You’re making me dizzy."

“How are you so blase about this?”

Clara sighs and snags Harry's hand as she passes, tugging her down for a kiss. "Because I know our daughter and I know John," she says as she allows Harry to pull away and stand once more. "We have nothing to worry about." 

Harry makes a noise that sounds like a scoff, but she remains silent beyond that. She makes ten more laps of the room, though, and drinks the rest of her tepid tea before the front door buzzer finally sounds, making both women jump. 

"See?" Clara says and Harry glares as she strides across to jab her finger against the button to buzz John in.

They're on the fourth floor and the building is pre-war, so the lift is dodgy at best, but it's still entirely too long before the knock, sturdy and dependable (much like the knocker), echoes against the door. 

She inhales deeply as she reaches for the knob to reveal her big brother, and they just stare at each other for a moment, each looking tired, stressed, and not a little bit ill. 

"Hey, kiddo," Harry finally murmurs as John steps forward and wraps his arms around her. 

"Still older than you are." 

"Still don't care," she replies, words muffled against his shoulder. 

His hugs are like late night blanket forts and bedtime stories, Star Wars viewings and beans on toast. They're tough love when the pull for a drink became too much and they're a silent show of encouragement with every day of sobriety she added. 

They're like coming home.

"All right, Clara?" he asks over Harry's shoulder and his voice rumbles against her chest, unwilling to release him just yet. 

"I'll get my turn when she's done," Clara replies and Harry can hear the grin in her tone. It's been too long since she's seen him and, miracle of miracles, she actually wishes he'd brought Sherlock with him. As for Liam, she misses him so much it aches and she immediately makes a mental note to plan a London sojourn on Lu's next school break. He is, after all, part hers and she suspects one day these roles will be reversed. 

John finally pulls away and she's stricken to see his eyes are wet. "Jesus, Johnny, don't start that yet. It's barely one o'clock." 

He laughs and swipes the back of his hand across his face. "I blame the jet lag." 

"No, you've always been a sap," she says, gently shoving him in Clara's direction. It's not true. Not really. He's touched by music and theatre and movies, but when it comes to the real emotions, the ones he manipulates onstage with such ease, it's difficult. 

Clara stands and drops the paper unceremoniously on the floor before stepping forward, hugging John, and then wrestling him out of his coat.  

"Kettle's still warm."

"Bless you," he groans as she goes to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder:

"Did you call Sherlock? Because you know if you don't, he'll ring every single one - " and before she even finishes the sentence, Harry's mobile goes. 

"Speak of the devil," Harry dryly replies, picking it up. "Yes, your husband is here in one piece."

She can hear Sherlock's exhale, as if he'd actually been worried, and perhaps he had been. She always does seem to underestimate him and yet she understands him better than most. Not John, never John, but most. 

"He wasn't answering his phone." 

She arches an eyebrow at her brother. "Not answering his phone, huh?" 

John frowns and pulls his mobile from his pocket. "Bollocks. It must have died after I called you," he says to Clara.

"You called your sister-in-law, but not your husband?" Sherlock says, affronted, and Harry rolls her eyes as she passes the phone to her brother. 

"Assure your man you arrived unscathed, please." 

John offers her a sheepish smile and holds the phone up to his pink ear. "Hi, I'm sorry." 

She can't hear what Sherlock says in reply, but John's features soften before he turns away to gain what little privacy he can in the living room. 

Harry shares a grin with her wife as they each pretend not to listen in to John's side of the conversation; not that his one word replies are really giving much away, mind you, but only Sherlock seems to be able to put that particular smile on John's face. 

It's been nearly twelve years since she showed up on his doorstep offering him a ticket to  _A Streetcar Name Desire_  and a chance to make her brother happy. She knows he's not the machine he would have the world at large (or at least those who haven't YouTubed his Tony speeches) think him to be, and yet he still continually surprises her. It's her favorite thing about him. 

"Uh huh. I will," John says, breaking her from her thoughts. "Give him a kiss for me." 

"And me!" Harry and Clara pipe up at the same time. John gives them a thumbs up, letting them know Sherlock got the message to pass onto Liam. 

"Love you, too. Bye." John hangs up and inhales deeply as he turns to them, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "So..." 

"Is it too early to start drinking?" Clara asks with a wink and John snorts. 

"Not by my clock." 

Harry rolls her eyes. "One mimosa each and then we're sitting down and strategizing. Lu comes home in four hours and I don't know about you, but I'm not emotionally prepared."

John gives her a mock salute and turns to drop his things in the office, but Harry can see the stress in the tightness of his shoulders, the tension in the angle of his neck – the twitch in the fingers of his left hand – and she knows she’s not the only one in need of emotional preparation.

xxxxxx

Sherlock stares at his phone long after he’s hung up, listening to Liam humming some tune that’s usually on John’s lips in the kitchen. The boy is sitting in the one of the chairs in a booster seat so he can see over the table, little feet swinging and he concentrates fully on the task at hand. An anatomy coloring book lies open on the table and Sherlock twitches at the green-colored liver and purple lungs that have been half-way filled in. If John was here, he’d merely narrow his eyes in Sherlock’s direction in a silent _Leave him be._

Liam is… “expressing himself” or some such nonsense. He nearly uses air quotes because John has said it to him so many times.

“Papa, I’m hungry.”

Those three little words snap Sherlock from his fugue and he glances up to find his son staring at him hopefully in a gaze that’s so _Watson_ , Sherlock’s heart aches.

He makes a show of glancing at the clock. “Dear me, is it past six o’clock already?” 

Liam nods heartily with a bit of an eye roll that says, _Yes, papa, how could you forget_?

“Well, we must be off to Angelo’s. Growing boys need their pasta.”

“Yay!” The boy yells, nearly tumbling out of his booster in an effort to get to the floor faster.

“Careful!” Sherlock calls after him but the boy tears through the kitchen and up the stairs as Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn’t think the child will ever stop nearly giving him a heart attack.

This must be what parenting feels like, he thinks for the millionth time since Liam was placed in his arms screaming and squalling.

The boy reappears a moment later and dutifully stands still until Sherlock leans down and ties his shoes, those little fingers threading through Sherlock’s hair for balance. He loops the last lace and presses a kiss to the nose he got from Harry, which causes Liam to giggle and swat at him.

“Shall we walk?” he asks and Liam nods, having had enough of cabs on his way to and from the zoo. He automatically reaches up for Sherlock’s hand as they make it to the pavement and Sherlock engulfs the boy’s tiny palm in his own.

“When will Daddy be back?” he asks and Sherlock thinks of the phone in his pocket and forces himself to wait to text. After all, he did just speak to the man. Let him have time with his sister and sister-in-law. Patience, though, has never been Sherlock’s strong suit.

“In a day or two,” Sherlock replies. 

“You don’t know when?”

“Depends. Daddy has some stuff to take care of with Aunt Harry.”

Liam goes quiet as he stares at the pavement. “But he _is_ coming back, right?”

 _Oh Christ._ “Of course he is,” he replies. “Do you think he could honestly stay away from you for any particular length of time?”

Liam shrugs and Sherlock halts him with a hand on his head before crouching down in front of him, ignoring the recently acquired aches in his knees.

“Darling, no matter what happens, Daddy is _always_ coming home.”

He’s not one for terms of endearment, only for Liam really, but he feels the need to drive the point home.

He remembers the show John did in New York when Liam was just two with a heartache that hasn’t quite healed. The boy didn’t understand where Daddy was no matter how many times they Facetimed or emailed. Sherlock tried to explain that Daddy had gotten a job, but all Liam knew was that Daddy wasn’t there. Sherlock remembers the conversation like it was yesterday, telling John that he needed to come home. John flew out on a Sunday night and back on a Tuesday morning, returning to the stage utterly jetlagged just so he could get 24 hours with his son.

That was the last show either of them did in New York. Maybe when Liam is older they’ll consider a more permanent move, but for now, London is home. They want him to be raised where they were.

“Always,” he reiterates and the crease on Liam’s forehead eases a little and he gives a little nod.

“I miss him.”

Sherlock sighs and presses a kiss to Liam’s cheek before standing, not bothering to mention that the man only left this morning because that would make him a hypocrite. “I do, too.”

They walk the rest of the way to Angelo’s in silence, and Sherlock relishes the feel of his son’s hand in his. Angelo greets them with a typically bombastic shout and Liam is all smiles as they're led to their usual table, momentary melancholy all but gone.

Sherlock manages to wait until they’re halfway through the meal before pulling his phone out. He snaps a photo of Liam, spaghetti hanging out of his mouth and quickly fires it off to John, already imagining the soft smile on John’s face when he sees it.

Sure enough, the phone buzzes on the table a moment later and he glances at it, heart quickening at his husband’s name across the screen.

**Definitely your son.**

Sherlock snorts and takes a sip of his wine as he stares at the boy across from him. For all that Lucy looks exactly like John, Liam is nearly the spitting image of Sherlock, with the exception of his nose, which belongs to Harry. Sherlock sometimes wonders if John wishes there was more of him in their boy, but he immediately chastises himself for the thought. Liam may not have his coloring, but he is John – from his compassion to his tantrums. From his meticulousness to his perfected look of bemusement that seems to say _Really_? whenever Sherlock does something particularly stupid. 

Liam slurps the rest of the noodle into his mouth and smiles a toothy grin with a ring of pasta sauce around his mouth. Sherlock picks up his phone once more, feeling infinitely lighter.

 **With those eating habits?**  
**Yours. - SH**

xxxxxx

Clara listens to the siblings squabble in the next room and fondly shakes her head as she puts fresh sheets on the pull out couch in the office. Clara loves her wife, but from time to time, she can be a bit high-strung. Granted, this situation caught all of them a little off-guard, as much as they had tried to plan for it.

"Am I the only one here who thinks this is going to be fine?" she asks as she emerges from the office and drains the last of her mimosa.

Identical pairs of Watson eyes stare back at her with equal part trepidation and incredulity.

Clara sighs. “John, let’s go for a walk."

“Now?” he asks, looking somewhat alarmed and Clara smiles softly.

“Lu won’t be home for another two hours or so and Harry has a conference call that she can’t get out of.”

Harry narrows her eyes at her wife, but Clara puts her hands on her hips and gives as much as she gets.

“You do. Don’t lie. If you want to sell that apartment, you have to take this call. The glory of a life in realty.”

“Fine,” Harry pouts and Clara steps forward, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “Keep him out of trouble.”

“Promise,” Clara replies, stepping away and catching the fond smile on John’s face as he watches them. “Come on, Johnny.”

He rolls his eyes at the old nickname and grabs his coat, standing to drain the last of his mimosa as well before following her out the door. The ride to the lobby is quiet and contemplative, but not awkward.

“Any chance of you boys coming back to Broadway soon? We miss you over here," she says as they walk through the rotating door into the cold, February air.

John shrugs, but there’s a shadow in his eyes. “Not until Liam is older, I don’t think.”

Ah yes. She remembers the incident a couple years back when Liam had thought that John had deserted them. He showed up on their doorstep looking absolutely destroyed one night and Clara watched, helpless, as Harry attempted to convince the distraught man that he wasn’t a terrible father.

“There’s been talk of Sherlock bringing his _Doctor Faustus_ ,” he continues. “We’ll see what the Oliviers have to say about it on Tuesday.”

“Oh right. Those are coming up.”

John nods and offers his arm to Clara as they make their way down the street. The wind is biting but refreshing, clearing away any remaining fog from the champagne. She leads them in the direction of the Met, but she’s not entirely sure John notices. His eyes are on the sidewalk just in front of this shoes, confident that Clara will not lead him into oncoming traffic.

“How did it come up?” he eventually asks and Clara starts, having gotten used to the silence.

“You?”

John smiles wryly. “The notion of me.”

Clara smiles and shakes her head as she leads him to the steps of the museum. “Typical Lu. ‘Oh hi, Mom. How’s your day? By the way, who’s my dad?”

John barks out a laugh. “Seriously?” 

“Yep. Just like that. As if she was asking what was for dinner.” The concrete is cold beneath her butt as she sits and gently tugs John down next to her. The fountains are shockingly still running even in the frigid air and the Sunday crowds are small, leaving the pair of them to enjoy the view over Fifth Avenue.

“You’re really not nervous?” he asks and she shakes her head. 

“Harry is. But mainly because she knows _you’re_ nervous and she’s anxious on your behalf.”

“Bleeding heart, that one,” John mutters and Clara nudges him with her shoulder.

“Yeah, I wonder where she gets it from.”

John inhales deeply and burrows further into the collar of his jacket, as if trying to hide from the world. It’s endearing and entirely unnecessary.

Clara scoots next him for comfort, yes, but more for warmth than anything else, and rests her head on his shoulder. She’s been one of John Watson’s biggest fans since he walked into that rehearsal room twelve years ago with massive talent accompanied by zero ego and charmed every person he came across. His leading man most of all. 

“John, we didn’t ask you to be Lu’s donor just because you’re Harry’s brother. I mean, of course that was a huge part of it and it allowed Harry to have that biological tie with our daughter, but it wasn’t the only reason. We wanted you for _you._ Not just your genes.” She winks at him. “Though they aren’t half-bad, I’ll admit. And that’s saying something coming from a middle-aged lesbian like me.”

John snorts, but sobers quickly, glancing askance with a kind of confused trepidation she hasn't seen on his face since Sherlock went missing and magically reappeared in the middle of Act One Scene Five. "You really aren't concerned," he says, and it comes out almost wondrous.

She shakes her head. "Lu loves you, John. _Adores_ you. Frequently won't shut up about you. The conversation that's about to take place has never worried me in the slightest." 

He sighs, but eventually gives a small nod, which is the closest she'll get to acceptance, she thinks. She'll take whatever she can get, though. She's not sure how long they sit there and people watch - long enough for her legs to go numb and her nose to go pink. Eventually she stands, holding her hand out to him and breaking him from whatever thought had been causing that particular crease on his forehead.

“Come on. Harry’ll be done with her call by now and Lu should be home within the hour.” He mutters an expletive but allows her to tug him to his feet and she smooths his lapels with a joking, "Pull yourself together, man. You've played Macbeth. This isn't exactly Birnam Wood."

That gets a genuine laugh out of him and he holds his arm out for her to take. "To Dunsinane, milady?" he asks with mischief in his eyes and she grabs his elbow.

"Indeed."  

xxxxxx

John steps aside and allows Clara to move through the revolving door ahead of him as they make their way into the lobby once more. The fresh air did him good and he's grateful to his sister-in-law for knowing him well enough to recognize his need to escape the walls around him.

"Do we have to pick her up?"

"No, the camp's bus drops her off right outside. I told her to text me when she got to Fifth." 

John shakes his head and gives a little chuckle. "A nine-year-old with a mobile." 

"Just you wait," Clara teases, "Liam will be next." 

"Oh please give me a few more years of cuddles and bedtime stories before you go giving him electronic devices." 

Clara hits the button for the elevator and smiles. "Lu still does cuddles. You'll see." 

He hums at that, because he's honestly not sure he will. Despite Clara's words, he remains incredibly uneasy about the whole thing and cuddles may not exactly be what he's on the receiving end of this evening. 

"Babe?" Clara calls as she opens the door and Harry's voice echoes out from the office. 

"In here!" 

"Close the deal?" 

Harry emerges with a bright smile on her face. "You know it," she replies, holding her hand up for a high five before pulling Clara in for a kiss. John gives Harry a wink as she beams over her wife's shoulder. Harry has certainly had her ups and downs and John could not be more pleased that life for her is about as happy as it can get. 

But a single chime from Clara's phone brings the celebrations to a grinding halt as three simultaneous inhales echo around the sitting room. 

Clara clears her throat and grabs her mobile, giving her wife a significant look that's not nearly as stealthy as she'd like to think it is. 

"I'll go down and meet her." 

She gives John a quick kiss as she passes him and he listens to the door shut behind her, leaving brother and sister alone in the room. 

"You ready for this?" Harry asks as she steps up to him and gives him a once over, fidgeting with a few things, as if Lucy would honestly care about the state of his hair. 

"Does it matter?" he replies with a soft smile even as his heart bangs against his sternum like a battering ram. 

"You'll be fine. You've faced bad reviews, crazy exes, Tony nominating committees, and Sherlock Holmes. You can handle a nine-year-old." 

"A very precocious nine-year-old," John mutters, just as he hears the key in the lock and the distinct sound of Lucy's mile-a-minute chatter through the door. He holds his breath as the door swings opens and his niece backs into the room, hands gesticulating wildly. Her hair is longer and a bit darker than he last remembers, and he gets a good look at how much she's grown as she wraps up a story to Clara before spinning to the room. 

"Mum, you will not _believe_ what I got to - " but she freezes mid-sentence as her eyes skate from Harry to John standing just behind her. "Uncle  _John_?" The noise that leaves her throat can only be classified as a squeal and she launches herself across the room and into his arms as if she were four-years-old again. 

"Lu, my love," he greets, voice hitching on the words as he holds her close and inhales deeply, lifting her off the ground.

Her arms are tight around his neck, but he doesn't care if air is a bit scarce. Over Lu's shoulder, he can see the emotion clear as day on Harry and Clara's faces. He closes his eyes to give Lu one final squeeze before lowering her back to the ground. When he glances up again, they've composed themselves. 

"What are you doing here?" Lu asks as she pulls away, but keeps a tight hold on his shirtfront. 

"Surprise?" 

"Best surprise _ever_ ," she replies, tugging him back in for another hug as Harry pokes her in the back. 

"Oi. Where's my greeting?" 

Lu rolls her eyes but grins and gives Harry a long hug as Clara hangs the girl's coat up on the rack by the door. 

"Baby, go put your bag in your room and put that dirty shirt on the washing machine, please," Clara instructs. "I promise Uncle John will still be here when you come back." 

"Yes, Mom," Lu groans before hurrying off to change. 

"What happened to the shirt?" Harry asks. 

"Popsicle mishap." 

"Ah." 

With the small talk out of the way, the three stare at each other for a moment, because the morning mimosas were great, but by the time they caught up on each others' lives, it left little time for actually planning this moment. 

"How do you want to do this?" Clara finally asks, nudging Harry in the side. 

"Yeah, we can tell her or you can, if you want. It's up to you." 

Clearly they'd discussed this and now the mechanics fell to John. 

"I can tell her," he quietly replies. 

"Do you want us there?" Harry asks and Clara is quick to jump in with, "We don't need to be." 

"Uncle John!" Lu's voice comes a moment later. "Come meet Howard!" 

"Who the hell is Howard?" he asks as Harry smiles fondly. 

"Why don't you go find out?"

He takes a step towards the bedroom and quickly notices that Clara and Harry aren't following. "Wait - we're doing this now?" 

"Like a band-aid," Clara says. 

"Just rip it off, kiddo," Harry murmurs as she steps forward and presses a gentle palm against his back. "We'll be right here." 

He swallows and nods, before squaring his shoulders like the soldier he is and making his way to the hall of bedrooms. 

"Hey," he says as he peeks around the door, but it comes out as more of a croak. 

Lucy looks up from her perch on the desk chair and waves him over, her enthusiasm making her wobble. 

"Easy, careful," he urges, hurrying to get a hand around her waist to hold her steady as she goes up on her tiptoes to peer into a glass case on a shelf. 

"This," she begins proudly, "is Howard." 

He raises as eyebrow as he spots a ball of fluff in the corner of the tank. 

"And what exactly is Howard?" 

"Uncle John! He's a bunny!" she huffs, giving him a glimpse of her teenage years to come. 

"Excuse me. It's tough to tell when he's all curled up like that and I can't see his ears," he teases, pinching her side and she giggles as she taps the glass. 

"Howard, wake up and meet Uncle John!" 

"Let him sleep. He's had a long, hard day of eating carrots, I'm sure." 

"He doesn't eat carrots," she replies, pointing to the bag next to the cage. "He eats pellets." 

"A bunny who doesn't eat carrots!" he gasps. "No wonder he needs a nap. Not getting enough nutrients." He groans as he lifts her from the chair and places her on the floor. "And why is he all the way up here?" 

She points to her lofted bed. "Because when I'm sleeping, I don't want him to get lonely," she replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

"Of course. Silly me."  

She smiles brightly and turns, pulling items from her rucksack and tossing them haphazardly on the beanbag chair under the loft. 

"Did you put your stained shirt on the washing machine?" he asks because once a father, always a father. 

She nods diligently, her ponytail bobbing. He's stalling, he knows he is, but who knew that the most intimidating figure he'd face down since first rehearsal with Sherlock Holmes would be his nine-year-old niece. 

_Rip it off, you coward._

"Your, um, your Mums told me you asked about your father," he finally blurts out and she slows her movements, but doesn't turn around. 

"Uh huh." 

"What made you bring it up now?" he asks, taking a seat in the now-vacant desk chair. 

She gives a small shrug, and even though he can't see her face, he can read the hesitancy in the movement. 

"Madison and Olivia were talking about their parents and they know I only have two Moms so they asked me where my Dad was. I said I didn't have one and they said that _everyone_ has a father, even if he isn't a Dad, you know?" 

"I do." 

She sighs and finally turns, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "So I asked." 

"And what did they say?" 

"Mum and Mom said we'd talk about it when I got home."  

John nods and swallows, genuinely worried he may pass out given how hard his heart is beating.

"And you want to know who he is?" 

That small shrug is back again and she collapses into the beanbag chair, not caring that she's crushing everything she just threw on it.  

"It won't change anything. It's still Mom and Mum and me and I don't need anything else. It might just be nice, you know. To know." 

"You are so wise beyond your years," he breathes, so unbelievably proud that he helped create the little human in front of him. 

"Well, I do have an A average," she replies and he chuckles, swallowing hard once more. 

"I have no doubt." 

"Uncle John," she starts, piercing him with that look that Sherlock says could cut glass, "why are you here?"

And he knows this is it. She may even know already, or at least have an inclination, and he can't deny her this. Can't deny her anything, if he's honest with himself. He clears his throat and rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans before meeting her gaze, because he owes her that. 

"It's, um, it's me," he breathes. "I'm your father, Lu." 

She sucks in a breath and holds it, eyes so like his own darting over every feature on his face, as if trying to find the proof in its contours. 

He's struggling to keep his emotions in check, unprepared for just how raw this moment would make him feel. From the minute he held her in his arms, he knew she'd have the power to completely undo him. Only two other people can lay claim to that particular quality and they're both on the other side of the ocean, cozy in a Baker Street flat. He holds his breath as her gaze finds his once more, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

"I wanted it to be you," she finally whispers, before launching herself across the room and into his arms. 

There's a moment of stunned silence as his brain tries to process what just happened and then he's laughing through a sob as his arms come up and hold her tight to his chest. 

"Yeah?" he manages and she nods, burrowing her face tighter against his neck. 

"So badly." 

"One of the best decisions I ever made, sweetheart," he murmurs, pulling away and pressing a kiss on her forehead. "One of the very best." 

She smiles a toothy grin and absentmindedly plays with the buttons on his shirt as he adjusts her on his lap. A crease forms between her brows, though, and she promptly worries her bottom lip.

"What is it, love?" 

"If I'm yours, does this mean that Liam is Mum's?" 

He smiles. "Clever girl." 

"A average," she reminds. "But she didn't get pregnant." 

John shakes his head. "We used a surrogate."

"Oh." 

"And you might biologically be mine, but you very much belong to your Mums. Both of them." 

She nods. "I know." She fiddles with his buttons some more before finally glancing up at him, eyes glassy. "Still glad it's you, though." 

"Likewise, sweetheart." 

xxxxxx

Harry washes dishes as Clara dries and they each smile as they listen to their daughter giggling in response to what can only be an inappropriate joke from John in the living room. 

If you had told Harry that two hours ago her brother would walk out of her daughter's bedroom with tears of happiness in his eyes because she finally knew just who he was, well - she would have said you were delusional. But here they are, stuffed from too much pizza and letting Lu stay up way past her bedtime just so she can hear one more ridiculous story from the Broadway Tales of Uncles John and Sherlock. 

And he is still Uncle John, despite the day's revelations, but their bond - which was already incredibly tight to begin with - has only gotten that much stronger. Harry has a feeling that their long-distance phone bill will get much more expensive in the months and years ahead. 

"Oh I've missed New York pizza," John groans as Harry comes back into the living room, staring at the wreckage of three nearly-empty large pizza boxes scattered about the coffee table. Lu is almost passed out next to him, head pillowed on his lap, eyes at half-mast. The food coma is clearly taking hold. 

"I can put her to bed, you know," Harry offers, handing him a small nightcap.

"No," Lu groans, but it's half-hearted at best, and John chuckles, taking a sip.

"She's fine." 

Harry takes a seat in the chair next to the sofa and watches her brother watch her daughter. 

"You did good, big brother."

"It went better than I could have hoped for." 

Harry shakes her head, looking at him fondly. "I didn't mean today." 

"You mean her?" He scoffs. "Like I had anything to do with how incredible she turned out."

"You're in there," Harry replies and John shrugs before smiling evilly. 

"Does that mean I can blame you for Liam's sleeping habits?" he asks and Harry barks out a laugh. 

"Yeah right. Look at your other half for the cause of that mess." 

He gestures with his hands in a way that seems to say, _Point taken,_ before the smile slowly slides from his face. 

"What's wrong?" she asks, idly wondering if the timing of bringing up Sherlock and John's sudden uneasiness was merely coincidental. He shakes his head, but she's unconvinced. "There's something else bothering you. Something other than the rather large elephant in the room that was addressed today." 

John sighs as he props his feet up on the table and shifts Lu in his lap. "You always did know me too well." 

"It's easy when your face is an open book," she retorts. "I read it before Sherlock ever did, you know." 

"Trust me, I do," he mutters before smiling as Lu snores softly. "They want me for a show." 

"Really? What show?" 

He pauses, biting his lip in the way he does when he's trying not to smile. "Sweeney Todd," he finally murmurs and Harry's eyes go wide. 

"Holy shit, Johnny. You've wanted that since..." 

"Since I knew who Sondheim was." 

"Oh my god," she breathes, practically vibrating with energy. It's been _ages_ since she's seen him on stage. "Where?" 

"Here," he sighs, wincing slightly as Harry practically bounces out of her chair. 

She's about to open her mouth and wonder what exactly she's missing but then she thinks of the mention of Sherlock and the not-so-coincidental shadow that passed over John's face. _Oh._  

"How did Sherlock take it?" she asks a bit timidly and John sighs, closing his eyes. 

"He doesn't know." 

xxxxxx

**How did it go? -SH**

John smiles at the fact that Sherlock still signs his texts, but there's something comforting in the initials now, like an 'xx' or a 'Love you'. He tugs the covers back on the pull-out bed and settles in, groaning at the fact that it's nearly 2am their time and he's feeling more than a bit crushed. He can't believe Sherlock is still awake. 

**Very well. :-)**

**I'd assume so, if you're**  
**using punctuation faces.**  
**-SH**

**Emojis.**

**Whatever. - SH**

**I might stay until**  
**Wednesday.**

 **Of course. Whatever**  
**you need. - SH**

John fiddles with the phone before sending his next text, but he might as well lay the foundation for the conversation they need to have.

 **We should go out,**  
**just the two of us,**  
**when I'm back.**

He waits for the reply and when 30 seconds passes - and then a minute - he knows Sherlock's not inconsiderable brain is working overtime trying to figure out why John is asking for alone time. Sure, they try to have regular date nights when neither of them is working but they aren't necessarily planned things. Especially not when one of them is in another country and dealing with a family development of this magnitude. 

 **What's the job?** **\- SH** is the text that finally comes through and John can't help but smile at his husband's genius, even as his stomach drops. 

 **We can talk about it**  
**when I get back.**

**John. - SH**

He sighs and rubs his forehead. 

**Sweeney Todd.**

**Yes. - SH**

**Sherlock.**

**Obviously, you're doing**  
**it. - SH**

**It's in New York!**

**So? - SH**

**We agreed when**  
**Liam was older.**

**It's Sondheim. - SH**

**I'm not having this**  
**conversation via text.**

It shouldn't surprise him when his phone rings a minute later, but it does. After twelve years together, six of them married, Sherlock usually still can't deign to pick up the damn phone. And yet - 

"You need to go to sleep," he says in lieu of a greeting. "You have a show tomorrow. And a son that will want breakfast before you're usually functioning in the morning." 

"You need to do this, John." 

"Sherlock - "

" _Please_ ," he pleads, halting whatever argument John had been about to launch.

"What's going on? You've never reacted like this about a job, particularly one in a place we said we wouldn't return to until Liam was older. More understanding." 

"John, I - I can't," Sherlock stumbles and John sits up because Sherlock _never_ stumbles. "This is your dream role. I can't be the one to hold you back from it and neither can Liam. Please don't put that on us."  

 _Whoa, what?_ "You have _never_ held me back," John fiercely replies. "Ever. You and Liam come first before any job and the fact that you are working right now and I am not is a choice that I made. Are we clear?" 

He can hear Sherlock swallow and when his voice comes, it's remarkably quiet. "John, if you don't take this show, I will never forgive you." 

John sighs, knowing this is one argument neither of them will win tonight. "We'll talk about it when I get home." 

Sherlock doesn't push back, for which John is grateful. It's been a long day and fighting about his career path was not on his already packed agenda. Still, he takes comfort in listening to his husband breathing down the line and aches to hold him after the emotional rollercoaster he's been on. 

"I love you," he murmurs after a moment and he can practically hear Sherlock smile. 

"I love you, too." 

"Did Liam give you any trouble?" 

"Bedtime was a bit of a battle. Apparently you do the voices better than I do." 

John chuckles at the petulance in Sherlock's tone. "Not Eeyore, though." 

"Definitely not Eeyore," Sherlock agrees, but when his voice comes next, the melancholy is clear. "I'll admit I'm out of practice when it comes to bedtime." 

There's a lot they're not saying - issues they've been avoiding in the eternal struggle to find a work/home balance. It's just another thing to add to the list. 

"I miss you," Sherlock breathes and John inhales because, though his husband is one of the most loving people he knows, he isn't always the one to initiate sentiment. 

"I miss you, too," John replies with feeling. "I can come home Tuesday." 

"No, no. Stay until Wednesday." 

"I'll bring you back some Schmackary's cookies." 

"Oh I knew I loved you." 

Silence descends for a moment, but neither seems to mind. Finally, Sherlock clears his throat. 

"So Lu isn't scarred for life that you're her father?" 

John snorts and cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear as he settles back against the pillows once more. "Only time will tell. Do you think Harry and Clara will hit us up for therapy when she's older?" 

Sherlock chuckles - a deep rumble that ignites something warm in John's chest and his groin. God he misses that man already. 

"You must be exhausted," Sherlock murmurs and John lets his eyes close. 

"So must you. The zoo takes it out of people." 

Sherlock hums. "There are pictures." 

"Can't wait." John yawns and hits speaker, propping the phone up on the pillow next to him. "Stay on the line?" he asks and he can practically hear his husband's eye roll. 

"This is quite possibly the soppiest thing we've ever done." 

"Says the man who declared his love for me on national television." 

"Shut up." 

"The video has three million hits." 

"I'll give you three million hits," he grumbles and John laughs throatily. 

"Promise?" 

Sherlock groans. "Wednesday, you said?" 

"Hey, I offered Tuesday." 

A sigh gushes across the line. "No, stay. Wednesday it is." He pauses long enough for John to blink his eyes open once more. "We'll talk about everything then." 

"Everything?" 

"Yes, Mr. Todd. Everything." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Met is the Metropolitan Museum of Art on 82nd St and Fifth Avenue. Not to be confused with the other Met, the Metropolitan Opera. What can I say? We're original here in New York.  
> \- Schmackary's is a cookie place on 45th and 9th Avenue. It is sinfully good.


End file.
